


Plenty of Fish in the Sea

by deadwritersociety



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, based on the song hands by barns courtney, jack rly is such a minor character in this one, spot is a british bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 23:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16275038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadwritersociety/pseuds/deadwritersociety
Summary: Spot awoke with a large sharpie stain on his hand and the vague memory of a beautiful boy at the club.





	Plenty of Fish in the Sea

Race sighed loudly, making sure his presence was known to those around him. It had been three days since he had written his number on the back of the hand of the boy he had met at the club. He would be lying if he were to say he hadn’t fallen for the smart mouthed British boy that had bought him a drink or two. He was so sure that the boy would have called him by now that it was exhausting to even hope he would call him. 

 

Every call he received was one more call that added onto his disappointment. Most were telemarketers, some were his friends. Rarely did he receive a call from a wrong number. It was becoming evident that he would never get the call he was waiting for. 

 

Race wasn’t going to let denial drag him down. He had dealt with it before and it was completely fine with him. He didn’t need the boy from the club to be happy with his life, right?

 

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his very own pathetic antics. 

 

* * *

  
  


Spot had been meaning to decipher the smudged writing on the back of his hand, but the longer he had waited, the more smudged and unclear the numbers had become. Four days after meeting the other in the club, he had no hope of ever deciphering the number. If he squinted and turned his head a bit, he could see what he thought to be a number seven. 

 

His memory of the boy that had written the number on his hand was indistinct. He remembered buying said boy a few drinks, and that he was a bit taller than he was. He would even go as far as saying that he thought the other had been very attractive, despite not remembering anything about him except that he had dirty dishwater blonde hair with a slight amount of curls. 

 

When he had left the club, he noticed the number on his hand and thought to save it for later when he was sober enough to send a decipherable text. 

 

His memory after that became a bit fuzzy, somehow he was able to remember making his way to a party at his friends house and undoubtedly having more shots than he should have had in the first place. Thinking about that night gave him a hangover worse than the one he had woken up with. 

 

Leaving his apartment became a chore in finding some that fit the vague description that lived at the back of his mind. His barista seemed to be familiar to him, though, he had seen that barista on at least ten occasions in the last few months, of course he would be familiar. The stranger on the corner had particularly caught his eye, yet, with no avail, he couldn’t find the one that made his heart race in the crowd. 

 

He would admit, he did look different than he had looked in the club. His nightlife self had donned black skinny jeans and a dark denim jacket, while he normally just wore skinny jeans and a t-shirt. Even if the boy from the club were out there somewhere, would he even notice Spot at all?

 

* * *

 

 

After five days, Race finally turned his ringer off, ignoring the numbers he did not know. He went back to his normal routine of drinking copious amounts of coffee and going to useless lectures. It had become apparent to him that he was not the fun boy that he had let the club boy get to know. It was possible that he hadn’t been fun at all, even when he speaking to the boy in the club. 

 

As he lugged his large backpack across campus, he tried to think of anything to remember the other. He had been so sure to catch the name, yet when he dug in his mind for one, he could only think of his own. 

 

He had sent out texts to his friends, asking if they remembered the cocky British one that he had been speaking to. They had all been too drunk to recall who Race was even talking about. 

 

“Maybe you’re thinking about another night,” one of them had said. 

 

He definitely was not. 

 

* * *

  
  


Spot met with his friends on the afternoon of the sixth day since the incident at the club. None of them seemed to recall him buying drinks for a boy, which was not surprising, as they either hadn’t joined the fun yet or hadn’t sat with Spot at the bar. 

 

“What’d you say he looked like?”

 

Spot sighed and furrowed his brows. “I don’t know. He was a bit taller than me, definitely blonde, and definitely not British. I’d know if I saw him.” He paused for a moment. “I think.” 

 

He received a chorus of laughter at his response. How could he possibly get anywhere with such a vague description?

 

He couldn’t. 

 

* * *

  
  


A week and three days since the night at the club and there had been no signs of Race finding out who he had given his number to. It was a dead end. 

 

“I heard that someone in Brooklyn was looking for someone,” his friend Jack finally told him.

 

Race lifted his head from the table, giving a small nod. “Go on?”

 

“He met the guy in a Manhattan club and he had a number written on the back of his hand but it was smudged off by the time he was sober enough to send a text.”

 

He could barely contain the excitement of running into a lead on this boy. 

 

* * *

  
  


It wasn’t but a few days before Spot had heard through the grapevine that Jack Kelly knew of someone who fit the description perfectly, right down to writing a number on a stranger’s hand. It seemed impossible that he had been so close to the other all this time, yet never gave it a thought to ask Jack about it all. 

 

A dark sharpie bruise was still adorned by his left hand, no decipherable numbers anymore. He looked down at the paper with the other boy’s number on it that was so graciously given to him by Jack. 

 

_‘Hey there,’_ he began to text. _‘I believe you left your number on my hand at the club.’_

 

**Sent text.**

 

He could no longer question whether or not he’d follow through with texting the other, as he just did. Waiting was a worse agonizer than searching for the owner of the number. The waiting could mean he was no longer interested, or possibly it wasn’t even the correct number.

 

His phone buzzed, the screen dimly lit itself up. A text from the number. Spot tapped his fingers against the table. Would he read it just yet?

 

The text read _‘take me out on friday night?’_ He paused before beginning to craft a text, receiving another text before having time to type one up.  _‘I thought I told you to call, anyways. I would’ve preferred a drunk call over nothing for nearly two weeks.’_

 

Spot let out a breath that he had previously been unaware that he was holding in. _‘I’ll see you on Friday, then.’_ He thumbs hovered over the keys. _‘This is the one time I’ll thank Jack.’_

 

* * *

  
  


Race couldn’t help but smile at the conversation unfolding between himself and the unnamed boy. 

 

_‘I suppose I’d better know your name if we’re going on a date, right?’_ He sent it immediately. 

 

_ ‘My name is Spot.’ _

 

The name sounded familiar and that was one of the best signs to come of this out of all of them. 

 

_ ‘And mine is Race.’  _


End file.
